


love don't know how to rest

by the black spot (Ejunkiet)



Series: dead men tell no tales [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Late Night Conversations, Season/Series 03, Unresolved Romantic Tension, bridges the gap between Killian agreeing to join them to rescue Henry, discussions of Emma's history and Neal, poisons of choice: rum and whiskey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/the%20black%20spot
Summary: “Is that your excuse for saving my life on the road as well, Swan? Adhering to your duty?”"Could it be anything else?”He doesn't reply immediately, his eyes bright and piercing as they flicker over her face, settling on her mouth for a long moment before meeting hers once again. With a creak of leather, he closes the distance between them, until she can smell the warm, earthen scent of him, tinged with the salt of ocean spray.“No,” he replies, voice low. “I don't think it could.”
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: dead men tell no tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1387783
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	love don't know how to rest

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene from the night before they leave for Neverland, where they actually take a night to prepare before leaping into a portal. 
> 
> (I don't know if it's just me, but I really think the characters need a moment to breathe after such a climatic season)
> 
> \--
> 
> Title is from 'How to rest' by the Crane Wives (this is a lovely song, you should listen to it!)

Manhattan is a shit show. And that's just the start of it. 

When Emma had first agreed to travel to the city to look for Rumplestiltskin's son, it’d been on the condition that this wiped the slate, for both her and her son. No more deals. 

It'd been a relief to shirk off the weight of the debt she owed to Gold - and she wouldn't say she regretted the chance to spend some quality time with Henry. She has no way of knowing the chain of events this decision would set off - the death of Regina’s mother, the partial destruction of Storybrooke and everyone residing within it - has no idea that the boy they're looking for is _Neal_ , the biggest mistake of her life.

And, with Neal - it’s like she’s nineteen again, the years falling away until she’s barely more than a child, naive and foolishly in love. The walls she built to keep him out - keep everything out - are beginning to come down, and it only gets worse following New York when he returns with her back home to Storybrooke accompanied by his _fiancè_ , and it’s like her old scars have been opened up all over again.

Over the following weeks, she does her best to keep her distance, as much as that is possible in such a small town. He's an open wound, one that still aches despite the years and time she's put into mending it, and she thinks - she thinks if she can just wait it out, it'll get better. She'll heal.

In the end, it doesn't matter: she still loses him, and it hurts just as much as it had the first time. 

-

The night after everything finally comes to an end, Emma makes space for herself and a bottle of whiskey in a quiet little corner of her office. Her badge and holster is on the table and she's off duty, David having signed off about an hour earlier after securing the arms locker and while it's great to have his support, she can't say she isn't relieved that he's finally gone. 

She knocks back a double and pours her another, uncaring when the liquor splashes over onto the table. She’s made good headway into the bottle and maybe starting to feel it when the front door clatters and heavy footsteps make their way down the hall. 

She doesn't look up until they pause at the threshold of her office and she realises it’s not David, come to check on her one last time - he wouldn't feel the need to hesitate. She glances up, across the layers of black leather, until she meets piercing blue eyes. 

“Hook.”

Hook gives her a crooked grin, looking like a shipwreck of a man. He still bears the marks of his injuries, his jaw and cheekbone mottled with yellowing bruises, an arm cradled to his side where she can see the stiff outline of the bindings keeping his ribs in place.

“Swan.” He taps the curve of his hook against the frame of the door, a crooked smile on his lips. His eyes settle on the bottle and he leans in a little closer, voice dropping an octave. “Get through all that by yourself?”

She ignores the comment. “I’m not in the mood for company.”

“I can see that.” He studies her for a moment, and the smile drops away. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, muting the gentle burr of his accent. “You shouldn't be alone, love. Not at a time like this.”

She swallows heavily, setting down her glass with a clatter. There’s a faint roaring in her ears that’s not from the alcohol when she finally meets his gaze full on.

“What do you want, Hook?” 

“To make your acquaintance, of course.” He glances back at the main office, eyes scanning the corners as if to double check that they are alone. He gives her a wry look as she slides her holster off the table.

“Easy. I just want to talk.”

“Parlay?” She exhales slowly, her eyes on him, assessing. “Didn't think you were the type.”

He lets out a laugh at that, a dark brow raising as he eyes her with new appreciation. “Under usual circumstances, I would say not.” 

He gestures at the empty seat. She considers it for a long moment before inclining her head in a nod. The holster is a comforting weight in her lap as he rounds the corner of her desk, taking the seat on the far side, leaving an expanse of wood between them.

He settles in with a creak of leather, dark eyes scanning the room, taking it in. It's a modest space, minimally furnished. She still can't bring herself to redecorate, so the small office looks much the same as it did when Graham had held the title of Sheriff. 

His eyes find his framed picture on the desk, settling there. She'd kept it as a reminder: of what they've lost, the cost of her mistakes - and from the way he's looking at her, eyes dark, expression subdued, she knows he can read it in her, like she's an open book.

“You know, we aren't that different, you and I.”

She meets his gaze then, holds it. There's a look about him that she doesn't recognise, a serious note that she's not seen before. It's gone before she can fully place it, and he reaches into his jacket, the rings on his fingers glinting, ruby and gold, as he retrieves the battered leather flask he carries with him.

She doesn’t look at the name etched in dark cursive on his wrist as he raises the flask to his lips, but she knows it's there, and the knife in her heart twists, just that little deeper.

When he offers her the flask, she takes it.

A half-smile plays on his lips as she tips it back, closing her eyes as the liquor burns her throat, somehow stronger than the whiskey in her glass. His eyes are dark on hers, watchful, as she passes it back, and it's not accidental that their fingers brush when he takes it. The rings on his fingers clink against the metal as he corks it, tucking it into the pocket of his duster. 

His voice is softer when he speaks again. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you liked me.”

Not in so many words. She's still not sure she's ready to define this shared thing between them. Familiarity, maybe. Recognition. 

Whatever it is, it's better left unsaid. 

“You came back,” she says instead, and if it's an abrupt change of topic, he doesn’t react to it, almost as if he was expecting it, and probably, he was.

“Aye.” 

“I wouldn't have thought that you were capable of that.”

He swipes his hand across his face, fingers rasping agains the stubble on his jaw, before collapsing back into his co-opted chair. “There's a lot you don't know about me.”

“I know you wouldn't hesitate to kill a man.” She's watching him as she says it, taking in the way he reacts to the statement, to see if he denies it. He doesn't, tilting his head towards her, waiting for her to continue. 

“You have a history with Gold. Is that going to be a problem?”

He doesn’t reply straight away. His eyes are steady on hers, a brilliant blue in the harsh lighting of her office, and he doesn't shy away from her stare, although a part of her wishes he would, energy sparking beneath her skin until she's itchy with it. She could use a fight. 

“I've put it behind me.”

“Really?” She raps her knuckles against her desk, a muscle throbbing in her jaw. “Less than a week ago, you stabbed him in the chest. The poison on your hook nearly killed him.”

“And it would have, had certain parties not interfered.” He seems to know what she's thinking, what she wants, she can read it in him as he leans forward, meeting her stare over the top of his flask. "But I take it there's more intent behind that statement."

"Why are you really here, Killian?"

It's the first time she's used his name instead of his moniker, and his brow twitches as he registers it, scratching at the scruff that lines his jaw.

"I thought I'd made myself clear." He holds her stare, and his eyes are startlingly clear, his expression open and honest, and it's killing her that she can't read him as easily as he can her. "I'm here to help." 

He hesitates, his eyes flickering between hers, and there's a long second before he continues. 

"Too many young souls have been lost to that island. I wouldn't have it take another."

Henry.

And just like that she deflates, all the energy leaving her.

She pours herself another glass of whiskey and knocks it back before pouring herself another generous measure. The glass is cool in her hand, and she rests it against her cheek, her eyes slipping closed as she exhales, long and slow.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds Hook watching her, his fingers restless against the lip of his flask. Eventually, he speaks again, his voice softer, carefully picking the words. 

“We will find your son. I swear on my honour.”

She examines him for a long moment, searching his expression for any hint of a lie and coming up blank. He means it when he says it, and she doesn't quite know what to do with that.

At a loss for anything else to say, she replies, “I didn't think pirates had honour.”

“A man has nothing if not his honour." 

His voice is light, but the look in his eye is anything but. The moment stretches as he holds her gaze, knuckles rapping out a sharp staccato against the desk.

“Which brings me to the matter of you hiding me from the crocodile.”

That pulls her up short. She thinks for a moment before replying. “At the hospital?"

He nods, his eyes glinting in the low light. She can't quite make out his expression to decipher the meaning behind the statement. _Why bring it up now?_

"In case you forgot," she gestures towards the badge at her belt, "it's my job to protect those who can't protect themselves.”

“Is that your excuse for saving my life on the road as well, Swan? Adhering to your duty?” 

"Could it be anything else?”

He doesn't reply immediately, his eyes bright and piercing as they flicker over her face, settling on her mouth for a long moment before meeting hers once again. With a creak of leather, he closes the distance between them, until she can smell the warm, earthen scent of him, tinged with the salt of ocean spray.

“No,” he replies, voice low. “I don't think it could.”

He holds her gaze, and the tension builds again, tangible in the air between them, and it's almost overwhelming until she finally glances away. Her cheeks are warm, and she lets out a long breath, willing the heat away as she picks up her glass and the bottle of whiskey. 

He leans back in his seat, restoring the distance between them, and she feels like she can breathe again.

“Was there anything else?”

He shakes his head, gathering his things and getting to his feet. “I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome.”

He stops at the threshold, hook resting on the frame, something unreadable in his gaze as he considers her over his shoulder. 

“I'll see you in the morning, Swan.”

She lifts the bottle in his direction, watches as he navigates the dark confines of the office until he’s finally out of sight. It's quiet after he leaves, and she watches the play of light across the amber liquid, her thoughts buzzing with alcohol and unanswered questions. After a moment, she puts down the bottle and grabs her coat, leveraging herself to her feet.

She needs to get some rest, no matter how impossible it might feel to sleep at the moment. 

Then, they will travel to Netherland and save Henry.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been waiting in my drafts from winter last year, when I was neck-deep in my rewatch of Once upon a Time.
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated! Find me on my tumblr, ejunkiet.


End file.
